


Put It On A Shelf

by mix_kid_ao3



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Allosexual Aziraphale, Asexual Character, Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexual Relationship, Blood and Injury, Flashbacks, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Panic Attacks, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Hatred, Vaguely Post Apocawasn’t, corrective rape, no noncon between azcrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:49:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21884773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mix_kid_ao3/pseuds/mix_kid_ao3
Summary: Hands holding him, scratching him,hurtinghim. Pulling and pinching, taking things Crowley never wanted to give—still doesn’t want to give.And he supposes that was the point, wasn’t it? Everyone wants to give and take this particular something. Everyone except him. It‘s a natural part of being a demon, there’s a reason it’s one of the easiest forms of temptation.Crowley wakes kicking.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley (Good Omens)/Original Male Character(s), Crowley (Good Omens)/Unnamed Demon
Comments: 5
Kudos: 218





	Put It On A Shelf

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting something like this but not my first time writing it so I went a bit heavy on the tags. There’s no description of the rape itself but lots of vague descriptions of feelings while it happens in Crowley’s nightmare. The blood warning is for an injury Crowley accidentally gives Aziraphale while panicking.

Hands. 

Hands on him—on his hips, on his thighs, on his throat, on the detestable fat lining his chest—everywhere. 

Hands holding him, scratching him, _hurting_ him. Pulling and pinching, taking things Crowley never wanted to give—still doesn’t want to give. 

And he supposes that was the point, wasn’t it? Everyone wants to give and take this particular something. Everyone except him. It‘s a natural part of being a demon, there’s a reason it’s one of the easiest forms of temptation. 

The hands were just showing him what he was missing, fixing him so he might want to give and take like anyone else. They push and pull and show in ways that make Crowley sick, and when they’re done he’s forced to change so he might be shown a new way, but in the end they’re just helping.

The hands never stop showing him, never let up, never leave. No, the hands are always there, always will be there. They’ll follow him until he’s fixed and if he can’t learn to want for Aziraphale then he knows he’ll never want for anyone.

Crowley wakes kicking. He’s lashing out at the arm over his waist, trying to push whoever is— _trapping, confining, holding_ —him off the bed before his eyes can open. He doesn’t remember where he is, much less who’s touching him, but he knows the bed is _his_ and he needs to get this _stranger_ off. 

The stranger lands on the floor with a properly harsh-sounding thump. Any revelry in the noise is short lived as Crowley races to curl in on himself, pulling his wings into the physical plane to shield himself from his bedmate’s inevitable anger. Being blind terrifies him, but being exposed terrifies him more. 

The person is moving much too close and it makes Crowley’s breath hitch. No no no nonono _nonono stay back stay away, pleasepleaseple—_

“Crowley, my dear, it’s just me, it’s Aziraphale,” comes an achingly familiar voice he can’t quite place. 

Before Crowley has time to remember where he’s heard such soft tones whispering assurances a hand grasps his shoulder. In an instant the taste of coppery blood is exploding in his mouth, his hands coming up to grip the offending arm until he hears bones creak. 

He braces for retaliation, for the hits and the scratches and the hands pulling his legs apart that he _knows_ are coming. He’s left waiting, warm squishy flesh still clamped between his teeth and blood dripping down his chin in scorching rivulets. Through the haze of his panic Crowley vaguely registers the burn as holiness. He figures he’s sure to be killed now, but he keeps ahold of the arm in the hopes that he’ll be dead before the hands come.

The pause lasts longer than he had expected. He clamps down harder, gnawing on the bloody flesh. He knows the depth of the would is approaching critical—if he could just bite a little harder.

Still, the blows don’t come. 

Crowley opens his eyes, peeking at as much of his surroundings as possible without moving. He’s on a bed—that much he knew—and sheer curtains sway in front of spotless windows. 

His flat. 

Crowley is in his flat, where plants tremble in every corner. Seeing his minimal furniture, covered by the random nicknacks Aziraphale seems to bring with him wherever he goes, centers him slightly. There’s the mug on the nightstand Crowley hasn’t picked up for his angel yet on the basis that it’s growing something interesting. There’s his black silk sheets, soft just how he likes, and there’s... oh. 

There’s Aziraphale, face screwed up in his best attempt at not-pained as he tries to ignore the fact Crowley has his teeth sunk dangerously into his hand and a death grip on his arm. 

The realization makes Crowley gag violently. He rips himself from Aziraphale’s range and stumbles backwards, pushing himself into a corner until he can’t get any smaller. There’s an overwhelming urge to throw up that he can’t be sure the exact cause of. Not only had he _hurt his angel_ but the pain of ingesting holiness, however diluted by corporeality it may be, is agonizing. Crowley whimpers, hands reflexively coming up to rub at the smoldering liquid only to be caught short. 

Crowley hisses, fighting against hands he _knows_ belong to Aziraphale, but still, it’s all too much and he’s hurting and afraid and no one is going to help him because no one ever does. He’s going to be pulled apart again, unraveled like a spool of thread and left tangled on the floor, used up and all wrong. 

Crowley’s vision tunnels. He’s trapped, and in such a case there are only two options: go limp and suffer, or participate and be rewarded. The urge to fight had long since been beaten from him. 

He chooses the latter option, surging up to kiss the angel. It would be too much to expect a true reward, but he hopes his enthusiasm will grant him some fragment of mercy. He holds the wrists before him as if his life depends on it and kisses with all the fervor he can muster. The contact forces a sound from the angel, but they don’t throw Crowley off so he doesn’t stop. He lands wet, sloppy kisses over his captor’s face, teeth clacking in the moments he manages to snag an openmouthed press of lips. Their shared saliva makes the inside of his mouth tingle like he’s burned his tongue. It’s hot and messy, primal in a way that disgusts him, but he can’t afford to stop. 

Soon the hands loosen and Crowley uses his own to grab at the being’s clothes, grinding their hips together in frenzied, desperate motions. He keeps his actions passionate and in quick procession—the less time his captor has to think, the less time they have to hurt him. 

Crowley’s hands snag a waistband and yank. The being responds by shoving him off abruptly. The violent motion throws Crowley off balance. He falls off their lap, landing on his ankle wrong and sending a spike of pain lancing up the entirety of his leg. He yelps but doesn’t stop. He has a job to do, and there will be unforetold consequences for neglecting it. 

Head racing, Crowley scrambles to his knees, squeezing himself between plump thighs. Hands are on him again, but this time they cup his face, forcing him to meet frantic eyes. 

_Aziraphale_ , Crowley’s mind fully registers for the first time since he woke up. It’s Aziraphale who he’s been touching and being touched by, the angel he loves and has loved since the beginning. The angel who doesn’t like sleep but had tried it for just Crowley’s sake before he had to go and practically rape him. Crowley stumbles back yet again, wings flapping erratically as reality sinks in too suddenly. 

On his hands and knees Crowley retches. He hasn’t eaten anything in days, and as such nothing comes up. Aziraphale has been busy, and Crowley isn’t inclined to eat without encouragement. Instead, he’s left dry heaving with the taste of blood in his mouth and the static burn of holiness on his lips. 

Under normal circumstances the burn would have excited him, it’s what makes his love with Aziraphale different from anything he’s ever known before, the looming feeling danger knowing he’d never be harmed. Now, the searing feels like a betrayal. He had been so assured that Aziraphale would never hurt him that he had never considered the possibility he might hurt the angel himself. His chest fills with something both hollow and overstuffed.

Aziraphale had only been trying to help and how had Crowley repaid him? By disturbing his sleep, by inconveniencing him, by hurting him, making him bleed, by almost _raping_ him. 

The soft cadence of Aziraphale’s voice flutters at the edge of the demon’s senses. He’s close, close enough that when he moves Crowley can’t help flinching, but he doesn’t know where. Everything feels bad and loathsome and disgusting—Crowley is disgusting. His breath is picking up. The blood rushes in his ears, blurring whatever his angel is trying to get through, and he can feel himself falling back into a panic. He feels his awareness slip through his fingers like sand and he would be grateful for it if he wasn’t falling back into his nightmares. Aziraphale is fading and Crowley is somewhere dirty and tucked away with Him and hands, hands, hands. 

Crowley curls in on himself, muttering apologies and promises to do better. He’s not sure who he’s talking to, or if they’re even listening, but he’s so afraid of being hurt that, on the off chance his incessant begging works, it will be worth it. The desperation is cloying, filling up his senses until there’s nothing left. 

A featherlight touch traces the length of his spine before the weight of a blanket is draped over him. It smells like cinnamon and lavender with undertones of holiness—it smells like Aziraphale. 

Crowley’s stomach gives another lurch when he’s reminded of what he’s done. He feels wicked, but not in the general sense he always feels, the kind that’s more akin to mischievous than truly wicked. Crowley feels wicked in the sense that he may be wrong and evil and unnatural, all the things He called him when they fucked. 

Arms lift Crowley and the blanket, depositing him on the bed. He flails in vain, but a portion of his awareness is regained with the bed. The bed is his safe space, and he has to guard it. It’s the angel who’s picked him up, his angel, and he hopes against all odds that he’ll want to stay. 

On one hand, Crowley wants to pull Aziraphale close and protect him from any forces that might harm him. On the other, he himself is a force that might cause Aziraphale harm. It’s an impossible balance that he’s too exhausted to properly contemplate so he rolls with his first instinct. 

Crowley buries his face in the angel’s shoulder, grounding himself in the scent there and nothing else. Aziraphale is here. He wouldn’t let anything happen to Crowley, not even if all the powers of hell came knocking at the door. He has to remind himself of that, of Aziraphale’s unwavering devotion. It’s absolute in a way nothing else can be.

The extent of Aziraphale’s love is both a treasure and a point of concern. Some days it feels like too much, like his angel’s love is something he could never match in depth or intensity. His love is too much in other ways as well, namely his willingness to hold and shush Crowley moments after the demon tried to bite off a sizable chunk of his hand. 

Aziraphale’s words start filtering in again, little by little. They’re mostly declarations of love, of devotion to spending eternity together. One phrase stands out in particular. 

“It’s not your fault,” he whispers again and again. 

It’s a foreign concept at the best of times, anything not being his fault, and being as out of it as Crowley is he can’t wrap his head around how it applies to this situation. He was the one who panicked when it wasn’t needed. He was the one who hurt Aziraphale when he had only been trying to help. And at the root, he was one who was strage and wrong. 

He can feel Aziraphale’s desire some days. He can feel everything his angel is feeling, but his desire—no matter how suppressed—will always stand out. It makes Crowley hyper aware of how he moves and dresses, of what secondary sex characteristics he imbues his corporation with. Every once in a while, no matter what changes Crowley makes to his clothes or body, the desire doesn’t go away. 

On those days Crowley‘s nerves follow him. They make it so halfway across the country and through a telephone wire Crowley is still on edge, waiting for the angel to demand he come over and satiate his needs as any good partner would. He knows Aziraphale would never, but also he knows his fear reveals the biggest flaw in his love. 

Aziraphale has always wanted to experience Crowley’s company in every way. He’s always made sacrifices for Crowley that could have ended in his falling, and yet Crowley can’t make the sacrifices necessary to allow Aziraphale this one thing. He’s given it up in the past for beings far less worthy than the angel, and, as Aziraphale might be the only one worthy of Crowley compromising himself so fully, he ought to just do it. 

And yet, he can’t.

And through all of it, Aziraphale keeps repeating _it’s not your job, you don’t have to, I understand Love,_ until it’s too much. 

“I’m sorry I’m broken, angel.” He’s sorry for more—for being lacking, for wanting so much without trying to work for it, for hurting him and almost raping him—but the words catch in his throat.

Aziraphale sucks in a breath but doesn’t move away. If anything, he holds Crowley tighter.

“You’re not broken,” he whispers. “You were never broken, not even after he tried so hard.”

Crowley feels broken, regardless. He feels like he’s been broken from the beginning, and He jammed the pieces together until they stuck with not a care for whether or not Crowley was actually fixed. And now he’s cut Aziraphale with his jagged edges. 

“Crowley look at me.” His angel’s voice is firmer now. He’s giving an order and Crowley would be daft to ignore it. 

“What he did to you, it’s not you’re fault. Your sexual desire or lack there of are yours and yours alone. No one is allowed to infringe upon that—not me, not him, not God Herself. You don not owe me.”

To the same extent, my Love, what you’ve just done to me is very different from what was done to you. You didn’t know where you were, you were afraid and trying to avoid pain. You didn’t mean to hurt me. It wasn’t your fault. I was in my right mind, and you weren’t.”

The difference is intent and awareness. You weren’t aware of your actions nor did you intend to violate my consent.”

Crowley blinks back tears from his position between Aziraphale’s hands. He doesn’t deserve a lover half so patient and forgiving as his angel. He leans forward again, slotting his nose between Aziraphale’s shoulder and jaw like it was made to fit there. Shivers wrack his body as the panic leaves him. His angel rubs a hand over his back and he doesn’t protest. 

Crowley watches the sun rise through their curtains slowly. When the shakes subside he’s left boneless. Aziraphale keeps a tight hold on him still. He doesn’t let go until Crowley pushes his shoulders. 

He looks Aziraphale in the eye, a hand on his cheek, and is filled with as much love and appreciation as he can take. 

They discuss the events of the past few hours, what was going on in both of their heads and how to avoid either of them getting hurt next time. By now Aziraphale has already healed the bite on his hand. It’s exhausting to talk about, but it’s necessary for both of them. 

When they finish Aziraphale makes two cups of coco and pulls out a book. Crowley wraps around him, content to spend the day listening to his angel read. He falls asleep less than halfway through.

His dreams are peaceful, and when he wakes him his angel is still there.


End file.
